


but everywhere just brings me back to you

by ptrprkrs



Category: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Excessive use of the word fuck, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Pining, Ricky is Whipped, past rini, that should be a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptrprkrs/pseuds/ptrprkrs
Summary: or, ricky is just a little in love with the voice of the girl at the starbucks drive-thru
Relationships: Ricky Bowen/Gina Porter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	but everywhere just brings me back to you

**Author's Note:**

> okay so like i know ricky probably drinks like 4 cups of coffee a day on average, but lets pretend he can’t stand it mkay? 
> 
> title from ‘running’ by arlissa

_This was probably dangerous_ , Ricky thinks belatedly, the tears in his blurring his vision from seeing the road out in front of him clearly. There’s no one else on the road save for the clearly drunk person using the stop sign as a bathroom, so he’s not too worried about causing an accident.

Besides, if he does end up having a breakdown in the middle of the street, there’s no one around to judge him. (Who is he kidding? That drunk guy probably has his life together more than Ricky does.)

The point is, though, that it’s three o’clock in the fucking morning and Ricky is crying his eyes out to the point where he could be deemed a hazard on the road. But he doesn’t even _care_ because his heart feels like it’s been ripped out of his chest. 

He’s known to act irrationally when he’s emotional. Red, his best friend since, like, ever (who’d probably chew his head off if he knew what he was doing right now), has mentioned this multiple times before as if it’d, like, stop him. His mom, too, who basically knows him as well as that weirdo taking a piss, could definitely tell him about his toxic trait. 

Hell, even fucking _Nini_ knows this. 

(This is to be expected, though, he knows. They’ve been together for the better half of three years; of course she does.)

(( _Were_ , the stupid part of his brain adds unhelpfully.)) 

((( _Fuck_.))) 

All this to say, though, Ricky isn’t surprised this is how his day is going. The moment he found that song he’d written for Nini—the one he’d _sworn_ he threw away—it was all downhill from there. 

(Curse his dad for making him sort through his shit for any and all baby pictures he might have of himself.) 

((He had three. Promised to bring them along when he goes home for the holidays.))

He’s been driving aimlessly for the past hour or so, and he knows his phone is probably blowing up with calls and texts from his friends. 

When Ricky looks up to inspect the blinking sign of the drive-thru he’s found himself in, he has to physically clamp his lip down from cursing out the universe, because of _fucking_ course this is where he ends up. He feels tears forming at the back of his eyes. He was so busy feeling sorry for himself, he nearly jumped out of his skin when the intercom crackled.

“ _Welcome to_ _Starbucks, what can I get for you?_ ”

And, well, _holy shit._

Like, _holy_ fucking _shit._

Like, Ricky actually forgets what he’s doing there (granted, he didn’ exactly have a _plan_ before, but if he _did_ , he’s a hundred percent sure he wouldn’t know what it was anymore). 

_That was the prettiest voice he’s ever heard_. 

And Ricky doesn’t think himself as a rash person (current predicament doesn’t count), but holy shit he thinks he’s in love. 

He stares dumbly at the little machine, mouth opening and closing dumbly, his throat suddenly dry. 

“ _Hello? Do you know what you want to_ _order?_ ” When he doesn’t answer for the third fucking time, he hears a shaky stactic and he assumes the other person just sighed. “ _Look, I don’t have time for this, okay? If you’re ordering, do that. If you’re loitering, I’m going to have to call the cop_ _s_.”

And if that doesn’t snap him out of his stupor, he doesn’t know what will. “No!” he exclaims frantically. “I’m, uh—” 

(Now, you’re not allowed to laugh at this next bit.)

The thing is, during the trance Ricky was put under by Pretty Angel Voice, he had totally forgotten what he was doing in the drive-thru of his ex-girlfriendʼs favourite coffee chain at the ass crack of dawn. Which was, you know, _crying_ over said ex-girlfriend. 

So, like, yeah, his emotional state is completely off kitler so he can’t be blamed for literally _breaking down_ in the middle of his sentence. 

He’s choking back sobs, wondering why the universe hates him so as to make him cry in front of the person with the pretty voice. “ _Dude, what do you—Shit, are you_ crying _?_ ” Great, Pretty Angel Voice probably thinks he’s a weirdo. “ _Um, look, I was kidding about the_ calling the cops _thing. Kind of._ ”

Swallowing back tears, Ricky shakes his head profusely. “No, I-I just—” 

“ _Hey, it’s, like, fine or whatever, just…do you want me to get you anything?_ ” 

“I don’t—” 

“ _Okay, that’s—_ shit _—um. Go to the next window, okay?_ ” 

Wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, he nods even though they probably couldn’t see him. Putting his car in gear, he drives to the next window and pretends he can’t see the judging looks coming from the worker manning that station. 

He’s not exactly sure what he’s supposed to do now, but the guy at the window is handing him a cup with some coffee drink before he can wonder too long. 

“Oh, I didn’t—” 

“Just take it, dude,” the guy says, pushing the drink through the window. Ricky does and feels like crying all over again for an entirely different reason. 

“Um, thanks,” he says, genuinely. The worker grunts in response and Ricky takes it as his cue to leave. 

Drinking and crying, it seems, is actually impossible, and soon enough Ricky has downed half the cup and his tears have dried into an uncomfortable crust on his face. 

He’s not even sure what’s in the drink. Pulling it away from his lips, he looks at the side of the cup to see if the name of the drink was written on it. And, well, there _was_ writing on it. 

_CRYING WHILE DRIVING IS DANGEROUS, LOSER_

Something tells Ricky that’s not the official name of the drink. 

* * *

One of the many things Ricky inherited from his parents (including, but not limited to a chronic inability to accept change), it was not being able to accept handouts. 

Which is why he finds himself driving out to the very same drive-thru in the middle of the night with a couple twenty dollar bills in his wallet. To pay for the drink, of course. Not just because of Pretty Angel Voice. Definitely not.

“ _H_ _ello, welcome to_ _Starbucks_ , _what can I—Oh. It’s you._ ”

Ricky blushes up to his ears. 

(So, he lied. Sue him.) 

“Uh, hi.” 

“ _I’_ _m not stalking you or anything, it’s just that there are cameras and you’re the only person driving an ugly orange beetle in the middle of the night, so.”_

The way they rush through their words would be endearing and have Ricky gushing over it for the rest of his life, but there was one thing that had him stopping in his tracks. 

_There are cameras._

And, well, _of course_ there are cameras; it’s a very popular establishment. He’s not surprised by this, not really. However, it just means that Pretty Angel Voice didn’t just _hear_ him sobbing like a child—they _saw_ him, too. 

” _Y_ _ou’re not gonna, like, cry again, are you? Because I don’t think I can keep giving you free drinks.”_ God, he can’t believe that this is his legacy. 

He ducks his head in embarrassment. “No, I am good. And sorry about that.” 

” _No_ _worries. Not the weirdest thing someone’s done during my shift.”_ He can almost imagine them shrugging to themselves. 

“Really?”

“ _W_ _ould you believe you’re not the only person to start bawling uncontrollably while ordering?”_

“Damn. And here I thought I was special.” 

“ _Let’s_ _not get ahead of ourselves, now_ ,” he hears a staticy noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and vows to hear it again. 

A lot more confident than he feels, Ricky drawls, “I mean, you _do_ remember my car.” 

“Anyone _would remember your_ _car._ _It’s_ hideous.”

“I resent that!” 

Thereʼs that static again. Score. 

“ _So,_ _are you ordering?_ ” 

“Um, I’m actually here to pay you back. For yesterday.” He’s pulling his wallet out from his pocket as he says this. He _doesn’t_ add the fact that he hasn’t stopped thinking about them since he pulled out of the restaurant yesterday and felt like he was going to lose his mind if he didn’t hear their voice again. 

Because, you know, that’s, like, fifth date confessions. 

(He realises that he has to first get _one_ date, but, like, wishful thinking and all that.) 

A pause. “ _O_ _h, uh, okay. Gimme a sec_.” Ricky waits for a moment, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “ _Okay_ _, so like_ —” Ricky thinks it’s a little pathetic how he instantly breaks out into a dopey grin at their return; it’s been a _day_ — “ _t_ _hat drink I gave you? Itʼs not on the menu. I was trying something new and, yeah. I donʼt know how to charge you_.”

Ricky is kind of flattered, honestly. Like, an original coffee recipe is probably the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made him. And sure the circumstances were…less than ideal, but when the love of life _your_ life invents new coffee orders for you when _you’re_ crying, you can judge him. 

“I guess I’ll just have to order something else and pay for it.” Now, he has no idea where _that_ came from. Ricky doesn’t know _coffee_. He doesn’t know how or what to order. He tells himself that he can just order, like, a plain black coffee and throw it out at home or give it to Red. Whichever comes first. You know, save himself from constantly waking up before the sun has even risen just to drive for coffee he probably won’t drink.

But then, “ _Sure. What can I get you?_ ” They sound like sunshine.

Yeah, his sleep schedule was fucked. 

* * *

So, like, hereʼs the thing:

Ricky doesn’t like coffee. Like, at all. Hates the taste, hates the feeling it leaves in his mouth and hates how much it fucking _costs_. There is no reason at all for him to be paying, what, $5 for hot chocolateʼs disgraced cousin. 

(“You do know they sell hot chocolate at coffee shops, right?” Red asks, eyes not looking up from the game he was playing. 

“...Shit.”)

And one could argue that there is no _reason_ for him to be spending so much money on coffee in the first place. But those people have never heard Pretty Angel Voice speak. Really, he recommends it. Truly a life changing experience. 

He only brings all this up because, in hindsight, he supposes his sudden obsession with the caffeinated drink might seem a little strange to people. But, like, he didn’t think they’d _notice_.

It was a good night tonight. He actually left the restaurant a lot earlier than he usually did after Pretty Angel Voice chased him away because _I actually have to work, you know?_

(Doesn’t matter, really. He’ll be back tomorrow.)

Ricky doesn’t expect Red to be awake when he comes back home from what has become his daily coffee runs (a little concerning, he’ll admit). He never was before. And yet, here he is, sitting in the middle of their shared apartment at 4 o’clock in the morning, arms crossed with an unimpressed look on his face. 

“Uh, hey?” 

“I’m staging an intervention,” his friend says curtly. 

Ricky’s brows furrow. “What?” 

“You heard me. I’m putting a stop to your midnight coffee runs.” At Ricky’s incredulous look, mouth hanging open, Red says, “Yeah, I know where you go.”

The taller boy sputters. “I don’t—I never—I haven’t— _Wha_ _t_?” 

Red rolls his eyes, pushing himself up to walk to the fridge in their shoebox kitchen. “Don’t play dumb, with me, Ricky.” He pulls out a bottle of juice and takes a long sip. “Your dad called me asking if you and Nini got back together because you’ve made a suspicious amount of coffee purchases in the past two weeks.”

(Yes, it’s been only two weeks, shut up.)

Red regards him closely. “You hate co—”

“Yeah, I hate coffee, I know.” Ricky covers his now flushed face with his hands. It’s not that he’s _embarrassed_. He’s not, really. Just—his _dad_ called his best friend because he was _concerned_ for him. For buying _coffee_. That’s like— _shit_. “What’d you tell my dad?” 

“That I’m, like, 98% sure you guys aren’t back together, given the fact you were literally crying over her just a few days ago. And yes, I told him that.”

“ _W_ _hy_?”

The redhead just shrugs in response. Ricky needs to text his dad. Like, immediately. He doesn’t need him thinking he has, like, fucking caffeine poisoning. 

“You guys _aren’t_ back together, right?” Big Red asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

Ricky lifts his head out of his hands. “W _hat_? No. That’s like— _No_.”

“So then what’s with all the coffee?”

“I’m in love, Red.”

“…What the fuck?”

So Ricky recounts his encounter with Pretty Angel Voice in vivid detail, because, as it turns out, he can’t talk about them without, like, mentioning everything he knows about them. (Which isn’t a lot. He needs to stop calling them _Pretty Angel Voice_ and, like, find out their _name_.)

When he’s done, Big Red breathes out an exasperated “you’re insane.” Ricky’s mouth falls open indignantly at that. “No, like, you’re actually ill. I can’t believe I’m about to live my love life vicariously through you, you idiot.”

“You can’t help true love, buddy!”

“You’re hopeless. Tell me more.” 

* * *

“So, like, what’s your name?”

He hears them sigh through the intercom. “ _Will you ever come here for just coffee? Or_ must _you engage in idle chatter first?_ ”

“I would’ve thought you’d know by now that I’m actually just here to talk to you. The coffee is just a bonus.” It really isn’t. He still absolutely hates coffee.

Pretty Angel Voice doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Ricky worriedly thinks he must’ve overstepped, then, “ _Whatever_.” He shouldn’t get his hopes up, he knows, but he can’t help thinking they were blushing. 

He grins widely. “But, seriously, what do I call you?”

Pretty Angel Voice lets out a long exhale that causes the intercom speaker to crackle loudly. “ _Isn’t the mystery part of the appeal?_ ”

“Who said that?” he asks, face scrunching. That’s not a thing. It’s not like this is fucking _Scooby Doo._

“ _Pretty sure that’s the point of, like, every blind date._ ”

Ricky’s eyebrows practically shoot up and disappear into his hairline. “Oh? So these are dates?”

“ _...Shut up_.” And oh yeah, definitely blushing. 

With the newfound confidence that came with the knowledge that he made them _flustered_ , he asks, “Hey, if we’ve been dating this whole time, don’t you think that’s even more reason as to why you should give me your name?”

“ _I actually don’t think so, Richard M Bowen_ ,” they deadpan and—

That’s—

“Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, _oh my god._ How do you—Wait, what the _fuck_?”

And they’re laughing. Ricky is positively freaking out and they’re _laughing_. He can hear it clear as day. Staticy and choppy, but still there and loud and _beautiful_ , but he can’t even focus on it because _what the fuck?_ He’s pretty sure he’s never told them his name. It was mutual, the whole _not knowing the other’s name_ thing. At least he thought so, because he doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting on this massive piece of information.

“ _Your credit card has a lot of information_ ,” is all they say after they’ve calmed down from their laughing fit. His entire face falls.

“You’re kidding.”

“ _Nope. I’ve known from the first week you were here._ ”

“Oh my god.”

“ _You’ve said that already_ ,” they sound so pleased with themselves. He imagines they’re grinning to themselves, and well, _cute._ But, you know, priorities.

“Yeah, because it pretty accurately conveys my feelings.”

“ _So_ ,” they begin, “ _w_ _hat does the ‘M’ stand for?_ ” They don’t even bother holding back their laughter at his sputtering. And the thing is, he’d tell them, probably, but he’s got to stand his ground and whatever, so, like, he _won’t_. “ _I genuinely don’t think it’s that big of a deal_.” They’re shrugging. He just knows it. 

Ricky throws his hands up indignantly, even though the camera definitely doesn’t reach into his car and they can’t see his theatrics. “Well it _is_. And, on that note, it’s only fair that I know your name now.”

They laugh again. Lighter this time, and it rings throughout Ricky’s ears. “ _Mm, I don’t think so._ ”

“Come _on_. You’re creating an unequal power balance in our relationship by withholding this information.”

“ _Technically you did that the moment you showed up to my place of work crying your eyes out, but whatever._ ”

“Let it go!”

“ _Also, what_ relationship _?_ ”

“I mean, since we _have_ been dating all this time.” He can’t wait to tell Red everything. Like, he’s tempted to call right now, because who knew he was so smooth? He’d probably date himself if this whole _Pretty Angel Voice_ thing doesn’t work out. 

He needs it to work out.

With an eye roll, probably, they state firmly, “ _We are_ not _dating_.” 

“But we could be.” Ricky pouts.

“ _You don’t even know my name_.”

“And you know my bank account details! The perfect basis for any relationship, I think.”

“ _That can’t be right_.”

“ _Also_ ,” Ricky adds cheekily, “what I’m hearing is that all I need is your name in order to be dating you?” 

“ _You must have heard wrong because I didn’t say that_ ,” Pretty Angel Voice deadpans. It’s too late, though. Ricky isn’t listening anymore.

“I will get your name if it’s the last thing I do!”

“ _I’m calling security._ ”

While Ricky intended to make true on his promise, he can’t spend all his time talking to Pretty Angel Voice trying to figure out their name. Not when he could spend that time trying to make them laugh. (He succeeds.)

And, like, it’s not like he’s going to _die_ without their name. The sun will still shine, the world will still spin, life will continue as normal. It’s whatever, really.

This isn’t to say that he never brings it up; of course he does. But it’s more in a teasing way than anything else. (“So, is your name hot or cute?”

“ _What the hell?_ ”

“You _know_ ,” he prods. They don’t know. “Is it hot or cute?”

“ _I’m not answering that._ ”

“That’s not even a real clue!”

“ _Ignoring._ ”

“Well, _I_ think it’s hot. Probably.”

“ _I’m happy for you._ ”)

The main point of all this, though, is that, yeah, despite all the kicking and screaming Ricky was doing before, not knowing Pretty Angel Voice’s name isn’t that big of a deal. He’ll survive. And besides, it’s not like he plans on not coming to this particular Starbucks anymore. He’s sure he’ll figure it out somewhere down the line.

He just wishes his friends had gotten the memo. 

“Hold up, hold up!” Kourt exclaims, waving her hands out in front of her. Red snickers around the pizza in his mouth and Ricky groans for the umpteenth time that night.

When Ricky mentions his _friends_ , nine times out of ten he’s only talking about Kourtney and Big Red. Big Red, who he’s known since basically the dawn of time when he accidentally ran him over with the skateboard he’d gotten that year for Christmas. He was Ricky’s first kiss back in middle school, back when _everyone else doing it, so we might as well get it over with_. 

And, like, Ricky would have dated him, too. Almost did for a second. But then Ricky discovered boobs and that they were just as good as kissing boys—kissing _Red_ —so, like, that ship barely sailed.

(Making out with Red still happened, but was reserved for special occasions.)

Kourtney kind of snuck up on him. They met through Nini way back when either of them could stand to be around her. He doesn’t know when or how the two of them fell out. All he does know is a couple days after his breakup with Nini, she was storming into his apartment, a case of beer already opened. “Nini’s an annoying bitch,” was all she said.

And all he could say in response was “tell me about it.”

They’re, like, his favourite people on the planet. He wouldn’t trade them for the world. 

He hates them so much.

Kourtney’s never been one to handle her beer, already tipsy one bottle in. She’s been working on a fashion apprenticeship at some really high-end store and subsequently has been way too busy to keep up with the woes of Ricky’s love life. 

Which is why, upon Red’s request, they were spending tonight sitting on the floor of Kourt’s dorm room while her roommate was out, catching her up on all she’d missed. 

“Let me get this straight,” Kourtney starts, swishing the contents of her bottle around. Ricky groans, throwing his head back and hiding his face with a throw pillow. “The reason you’re up at ungodly hours of the morning, spending all your money on fucking _coffee_ —which you can’t stand, by the way—is because you have a crush on the worker’s _voice_?”

He feels his face burn, positive it’s almost as red as his friend’s hair. “Don’t say it like that!” he protests, voice muffled by the pillow still pressed firmly against his face. 

“There’s literally no other way to say it!”

“Look, it’s not— _Ugh!_ ” His face feels like it’s on _fire_.

Red pipes up from where he’s sat leaning against the foot of Kourt’s bed. “Have we mentioned the fact that he still doesn’t know their name or what they look like?”

“You’re kidding,” Kourtney deadpans. Ricky isn’t even looking at her, but he knows the expression she’s wearing on her face. She throws a cushion at his head, forcing him to look up. “And it’s been how long?”

“Almost three months,” he mumbles, feeling his blush spread down to his chest.

“Oh my _god_.” Ricky wants to _die_. “You know they could be, like, a serial killer? Maybe that’s why they won’t tell you anything about them. They’re probably, like, just biding their time before they, you know,” she makes a slicing motion across her throat and Ricky rolls his eyes.

He won’t lie and say he’s never thought of the possible reasons as to why Pretty Angel Voice has not been privy to sharing information about themselves. And maybe he’s entertained the idea of them being an international spy and not an actual Starbucks employee. Hell, maybe the whole _building_ isn’t even a real Starbucks establishment and instead, like, a top secret HQ. 

Despite this, Ricky knows it isn’t true. Like, whatever theories his friends come up with to point out how weird or concerning the whole thing was, to an extent, make sense and he gets why they’d want him to be cautious, really he does. But there’s just a _feeling_ he has, like, deep in his belly or whatever. That they wouldn’t hurt him. Not on purpose. Not unless he’d let them. 

And it’s not like he plans on, like, fucking giving them his social security number or anything. (But he would, probably, if they asked. And that’s nothing on them, just goes to show how fucking _whipped_ Ricky is. So, like, it doesn’t prove Kourtney’s point.)

“Maybe they’re a part of the witness protection program,” Red hiccups, significantly more drunk than he was moments ago. “And they can’t reveal their identity because, like… _danger_.”

Kourt completely steam rolls over him. “What if they kill you and hide your body in your car. And we’d never know because your car smells like shit anyway, so like we wouldn’t think there’s anything out of the ordinary—” Ricky huffs indignantly— “But then, we go to open the boot one day because we’re having a party or some shit and need to put the booze in the car, right?”

Ricky knows she’s not looking for a response, but Red gives her one anyway. “Right, of course.” He’s moved so he’s lying flat on his back on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling.

“And guess what?”

“What?” Red asks, paying rapt attention and _god_ Ricky can’t believe these are his friends.

“There he is, fucking _dismembered_.”

Red gasps, shooting up right. “No.”

Kourtney, eyes wide, nods her head frantically. “ _Yes_. And, like, we _know_ it was—What does he call them again?”

“Pretty Angel Voice.”

“Right. We know it was _Pretty Angel Voice_ , but since we don’t know their name or what they look like, we can’t have them charged or arrested and you and I end up with life in prison.”

Big Red starts yelling about how Ricky needs to find out their name because he can’t go to jail because _who would stop you from overdosing on coffee?_ He doesn’t remind him that in his scenario he’s dead, so like, no coffee for him. And that, you know, he doesn’t even _drink_ the coffee. Instead, “Are you guys done?”

They both burp simultaneously, erupting in a fit of giggles immediately after. “Yes,” Kourt says after they’ve calmed down.

“Great.” Ricky pushes himself up from the floor and moves around to grab his jacket from where it was hanging on the back of a chair.

“Where are you going?” Red whines, shoving a piece of pizza into his mouth. Ricky wonders how he hasn’t thrown up yet.

“Kourt doesn’t have any aspirin here, I’m going out to get you guys some for your hangovers.” Partly true; she has only two left. But they don’t need to know why he’s really going out.

As he’s walking to let himself out, he hears Red whisper loudly to Kourtney. “He’s going to get coffee, isn’t he?”

“He is _definitely_ going to get coffee.”

_Ugh_. They’re so annoying.

He loves them so much.

* * *

As an underachieving college student, Ricky knows a little (read: a lot) about late nights. The last minute assignment submissions, staying up to cram the night before a big test and, obviously, stumbling home in the early hours of the morning from whatever party his classmates were throwing that night; yeah, the bags under his eyes were permanent at this point.

It doesn’t help that he misses out on some much needed sleep to go talk to someone who’s name he doesn’t even know where he spends an unhealthy amount of money on coffee. 

Which, speaking of, Ricky still has not built up a tolerance for the drink. Like, you’d think given how much time he spends at a fucking coffee shop, he’d, you know, _like coffee_. But no. He goes to Starbucks, engages in flirty banter with the employee at the drive-thru speaker, orders a coffee and just. Doesn’t drink it. 

At first, Ricky would leave the drink out for Red to drink when he wakes up. But then the redhead started complaining that four plus hour old coffee tasted like shit and Ricky stopped. Not after fighting him on it because, like, what’s wrong with reheated coffee? 

Nothing, it seems, because he finds someone who appreciates them as though they were fresh from kitchens. Ashlyn is a girl from one of his songwriting classes. They aren’t close or anything, but they were in a group for a project so they’re friendly enough.

She was always complaining about how early her classes were and how she didn’t even have time to get herself something to help wake her up. Now guess who just so happened to have an arsenal of coffee almost every day?

So Ricky buys coffee and Ashlyn drinks it. It’s an excellent system.

“You’re a lifesaver, Ricky,” Ashlyn breathes out, right before their class starts when he hands her the drink he’d bought earlier that day.

He shrugs smugly. “I try.” 

“No really,” she says, taking a sip of the drink. “You reminded me that I need to yell at Gina the next time I see her.” 

“Who?” He takes his seat next to her, confused as to who she was talking about.

As though just realising there’s no way Ricky could know whoever this Gina person was, she clarifies. “Oh, Gina. She’s, like, my best friend ever. She actually works at the Starbucks across from campus.” 

And, like, no way. 

There’s _no way._

Tons of people who go to their school work at the Starbucks across campus. That’s just, like, statistics. And speaking of statistics, the chances of whoever Ashlyn is talking about being Pretty Angel Voice are basically nonexistent. 

Ash is still talking, though, not aware of his internal struggle. “Yeah, like she works the worst shift—literally is up at one in the morning—and is practically asleep for the rest of the day.” She rolls her eyes, clearly something she’s expressed her disdain for before, but Ricky is only half-listening at this point. 

“And you know what the kicker is?” she continues, not even talking to Ricky anymore, just ranting to no one. “Gina could change shifts if she wanted to. Which, for some reason, she _doesn’t_. Something about nice customers, or whatever.”

And that’s—

_Holy shit._

_There’s no way._

That’s just too big of a coincidence. Like, Ricky did the _math_. The chances? Nonexistent, remember? And yet—

“Hey, Gina.”

“ _Welcome to—_ ” A pause. Ricky feels his palms get sticky. _Shit_. Then. “ _What the fuck?_ ”

His eyes widen comically. “Oh my god.”

“ _What the fuck?_ ”

“Oh my _god_.”

“ _No, like, what the_ fuck _?_ ”

“Your name is Gina. Your _name_ is _Gina._ ” He can’t believe this. He can’t _fucking_ believe this. Like the whole time he’s known Ashlyn, he’s consequently known her. Known _Gina._ Because that’s her _name_. 

Speaking of, she’s still freaking out. “ _How the fuck—What?_ ”

Trying to come off as casual as possible, he shrugs and answers cooly, “Ashlyn mentioned you.”

“Ashlyn _mentioned—? How the fuck do you know_ Ashlyn _? How the fuck do you know_ I _know Ashlyn?_ ”

“Honestly, I didn’t. She’s in my songwriting class and, like, I didn’t think she was talking about _you_ —I mean, I was hoping but I didn’t know.” Which is true. He was going out on a limb calling her Gina. 

“ _I can’t believe this_.” 

“She thinks you should change shifts.”

Gina ( _Gina!!!_ ) lets out a long suffering sigh. “ _I know._ ”

“She just doesn’t get how _nice_ the customers are, right?” he asks, as though they’re in on a joke, a teasing lilt to his voice. 

There’s a beat. A moment where Ricky let’s his words sink in. Then, “ _Oh my god. Shut_ up _._ ”

Ricky does not shut up. “Your name is _Gina._ ”

“ _Yes, my name is Gina. Don’t wear it out,_ ” she grunts, but Ricky hears the amusement sneaking into her voice.

“Told you it’d be hot.”

“ _What?_ ” she asks incredulously. “ _In what world is_ Gina _a hot name?_ ”

“Uh, this one?”

“ _Name one hot Gina,_ ” she challenges.

Without missing a beat, “Regina George.”

“ _You’re kidding_ ,” Gina deadpans.

Ricky throws his arms up in disbelief. “What? She’s hot!”

“ _Yeah, but no one calls her Gina_.”

Now, Ricky has seen _Mean Girls_ more times than he’d care to admit; he’d know if that were true. And well, she had a point. “Hmm. But if they did, she’d be, like, ten times hotter.”

“ _For sure_.” He knows she’s just humoring him, but it makes him smile anyway.

“Regina King.”

He hears Gina hum through the speaker. “ _Yes, but same problem._ ”

“Damn. Regina—”

“ _What makes you think Regina is my full name?_ ”

“Is it not? What about Georgina?” He’s teasing; saying names he somehow just knows aren’t hers.

Ricky can _feel_ the distaste through the speaker as she answers, “ _Gross, no._ ”

“Yeah, that would make you significantly less hotter,” he hums thoughtfully.

Gina chuckles softly. “ _We canʼt have that_.” 

“No we can’t, _Giuliana_.”

Gina sputters. “ _What?_ ” 

“Geraldine. Gwenivere. Gwendolyn.” 

“ _Enough, enough. Spare me_ ,” she pleads through laughs, the smile on her face heard through her voice. 

And Ricky doesn’t think himself a musician by any means—just something he does to pass the time—but he has this urge to record her laugh, play it back whenever he misses her (which is a lot considering he’s here almost everyday), hell, put in a _song_. Her laugh sounds like music. 

Gina deserves a song.

* * *

(So maybe he writes her a song, shut up.)

* * *

In the three or so odd months Ricky has routinely been coming to this Starbucks, Gina has gotten sick five times. Out of all those times, she has always shown up. Regardless of whether her voice was so scratchy to the point it was indiscernible, she never failed to deliver the standard greeting through the intercom. 

Ricky is pretty sure the world could go up in flames and Gina would still go to work.

All this to say, Gina was not at work.

“EJ?” Ricky asks incredulously when a voice that was decidedly _not_ Gina’s—too gruff. Rumbled in a way that turned Ricky’s stomach over—greeted him when he pulled into the drive-thru.

The speaker crackles with a long suffering sigh from the worker Ricky has come to know as the one who handles the delivery window. “ _Don’t make this weird_.”

The other boy barely spares him an eye roll, long used to his less than friendly demeanor. “I’m not-I’m not making this _weird_. I Just—Where’s Gina?”

“ _Look, man, I’m not here to sit and make goo goo eyes at your dumb jokes. Just order._ ”

Ricky sits up a little straighter in his chair, a wide smile spreading across his face. “She makes goo goo eyes at my jokes?”

“ _Seriously?_ ” EJ deadpans. He sighs again, clearly annoyed. “ _Fine, whatever. Gina’s working the counter this week._ ”

“So I’m stuck with you?” He doesn’t mean to sound so disappointed at the prospect. EJ was nice enough, he supposes, if you caught him in a good mood. (Ricky has never caught him in a good mood.)

“ _Unfortunately._ ” (Ricky takes back his earlier comment.) “ _Can I go back to doing my job and take your order now?_ ”

Ricky was really not about to spend any money right now. Not when the reason he even does wasn’t there. He shakes his head lightly even though EJ couldn’t see him. “Um, no, it’s fine. I’m not thirsty.”

“ _Sure_ ,” EJ says in a way that lets him know he doesn’t believe him. The intercom crackles with finality and Ricky goes home.

And stays home for the whole week.

Well, not _entirely_. 

He still goes to classes, hangs out with Big Red and Kourtney when she’s available. His classmates throw parties and he goes and has fun. And when he’s not subject to being the designated driver for his drunk friends, gets wasted and has even _more_ fun.

Hell, he gets to _sleep in_. Catch up on the rest he’s been missing out on since he started going to the coffee shop all those months ago. He feels so _rested_.

It was the worst week of his life.

(“C’mon, Rick, you can’t keep moping around,” Red prods, poking at his lying form. Ricky just grunts in response, face in the couch, to prove that he can, in fact, keep moping around. “I’m telling Kourt.)

((Ricky got up off the couch.))

He speeds his way to the restaurant once the week was up, breaking multiple speeding limits on the way, probably. With an odd sense of deja vu, he notices he’s once again alone on the roads.

“ _Where have you been the past week?_ ” Gina asks with no preamble whatsoever. He doesn’t stop to wonder how she knows this, only entertains the idea that maybe she’d noticed the significant lack of his bright orange car in their drive-thru. Maybe, at the end of their shift, she’d asked EJ if he’d shown up.

(Maybe she was disappointed when he didn’t.)

“Well, we’ve already established I only come here for you, and you weren’t here, so…” 

“ _I mean, I was_ here _, just not…here._ ” And, well, _cute_.

“Yeah, EJ mentioned that you were sent to man the counter.”

She chuckles low. “ _Yep. My boss seemed to think that recently I wasn’t being as efficient at the drive-thru. Something about spending too much time making conversation with customers._ ”

He gasps. “No.”

”Yeah.” There’s a quiet. Ricky doesn’t know _why_ , but it seems like the atmosphere around them has changed. “ _You know_ ,” Gina starts, a hint of nervousness peeking through her voice (although Ricky can’t tell for what), “ _I was kind of expecting you’d come see me._ ”

( _Oh._ ) “Oh.”

“ _Yeah_.”

“Do you still?” he asks softly, not wanting to disturb the ambience they’ve created.

“ _Do you want to?_ ”

He laughs, smiling slightly. “We’re going to be here forever at this rate.”

“ _Well, I’d hope not. My shift ends in thirty minutes._ ”

A beat. Then it clicks. “ _Oh._ ”

* * *

When Ricky was ten, his family took a trip to a reserve. He was content with spending all his time exploring the park, but his parents dragged him out to a hike one day without telling him where they were going. He sulked and complained the whole way, feet sore and uncomfortably hot under the sun. 

When they got to the top, the view took the breath the hike hadn’t taken away. He looked over the edge of the cliff they’d just climbed and felt his knees buckle. The ground was so far away, it caused his stomach to drop. He remembers the feeling vividly.

It was nothing compared to how he feels now.

He stands anxiously in the middle of the restaurant, legs wobbly, as he waits for Pretty Angel Voice to emerge. There’s the possibility that Ricky completely misread the situation and Gina isn’t coming. Doesn’t want to see him and he’s just making a fool of himself.

Then, she’s walking towards him. And he knows it’s her, long before he even sees the name tag clipped to her uniform.

He doesn’t give her the chance to say anything, immediately blurting out, “You’re beautiful.” He watches as her face flushes. She ducks her head quickly, a strand of hair falling away from the bun she had it up in. 

“Thought I was _hot_ ,” she teases, her voice lighter and airier without the microphone filtering it and Ricky swears he falls in love all over again.

“I mean, you _are_ , but I didn’t know how welcome that would be for our first meeting.”

The smile she gives him sends him reeling, it knocks the air out of his lungs. Gina, Ricky thinks, is the climb, the summit and the drop all in one. Unexpected, but oh, so worth it in the end. The possibility that he could fall, and that’d be it. The view, too. Always the view. 

_She was so beautiful._

“Genevieve Porter,” she says firmly. ”There, you have my name, now.”

His eyebrows furrow, worried she must’ve been saying something and he missed because he was too busy staring at her. “What?” She doesn’t explain herself, just stares at him in a way that makes his stomach swoop. Then, “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah.”

He smiles, blindingly bright. “Does that mean we’re dating now?”

“Let’s try one, for now. But—” she grabs his hand and laces their fingers together— “that’s not completely ruled out.” A blush spreads throughout his body, a tingling sensation in his toes as he stares at their joined hands. They’re warm and soft and Ricky never wants to let go.

He swallows. “Where to?” he asks knowing he’d follow her anywhere. Go anywhere if she so much as asked. He had it so bad for this girl and she didn’t even know it.

Gina stops to think about it for a second, drawing her lips between her teeth in concentration and Ricky wants to kiss her. “Anything but coffee,” she breathes out.

Ricky can’t help the laugh that tears through him at that. Gina looks at quizzically, head tilted slightly, gaze making his knees weak. “I am _so_ glad you said that.”


End file.
